


infinity times infinity

by taoslefteyelid



Category: EXO (Band), Z.Tao (Musician)
Genre: ??? is it magic, Alternate Universe, M/M, Magic, There is a Void, i dont know, this makes no sense and i am aware of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoslefteyelid/pseuds/taoslefteyelid
Summary: "there is love in the universe and stars in the void and gold in your eyes."what are you dreaming about, adonis?





	infinity times infinity

**Author's Note:**

> okay quick note, i wrote this fic in one sitting months ago and to this day i have no idea what i was talking about so if any of this makes sense to you please let me know

_ “What’re you dreaming about, Adonis?”  _

Zitao wakes up. It isn’t very dramatic. He just… wakes up. Like you would in your bedroom on a Sunday morning. Except it’s not like that at all, because Zitao wakes up to a voice that invokes something he can’t really place, and total darkness. 

“What?” 

“I asked you what you were dreaming about.” 

Zitao’s pupils try to adjust to the darkness, but there’s simply nothing to adjust to. No light source, anywhere. 

“I- Did you just call me Adonis?” 

“Yeah,” the voice says, along with a light thud that usually accompanies someone jumping down from where they were sitting. “It’s on your shirt.” 

“You can see my clothes?”

“Why?”, asks the voice. “Can’t you see them?” 

Zitao shakes his head, and then for good measure declines out loud. 

“Does that mean you can’t see me?” 

“I can’t see anything. It’s just darkness.” 

“That’s strange,” and the voice says it the way you’d look at a nice bookshelf and say it’s a nice bookshelf. There’s no urgency as to why Zitao is blind. Zitao supposes it doesn’t really bother him too much either.

“But tell me, Adonis, what were you dreaming about?”

“Stars,” Zitao rasps out, even though he doesn’t remember any dreams at all. It just feels like the right thing to say. “I was dreaming about the stars.” 

“You’re crying, Adonis,” and sure enough, Zitao can feel the tears trickling down his cheeks. He doesn’t know why he’s crying exactly. It just feels right. “Why?” 

“You ask a lot of questions,” Zitao says, and his voice is oddly happy and he’s still thinking of the stars. 

“Maybe. But why are you crying so happily?” 

“I dreamt about the stars,” he smiles. 

\---

It’s three days, or what feels like three days, before the voice speaks again. It’s hard to tell time. 

“Adonis, do you know where we are?” 

Zitao starts, jolting up at the sudden question. 

“You’re still here?”

“Of course I am. I never left. Haven’t left for a long time. I’ve been here since way before you showed up.” 

“Oh. Do  _ you  _ know where we are?” 

“Yes,” the voice whispers, but it sounds unsure. “No. It’s complicated.” 

“I don’t know where we are. I can’t even see anything.” 

The voice hums. 

“Well, Adonis-” 

“Zitao,” he offers. It feels weirdly intimate. What’s in a name, he asks himself, and pauses. The words feel familiar, well known. They’re not his own words. 

The next thought he has is completely unrelated to the first. There are fae, he reminds himself. He knows of them, through some way or another, and names,  _ names _ , give them power. This doesn’t feel like a fae’s trick, though. Much too dark. Much too boring. 

He wonders then, if maybe he’s insane. Shakespeare (that’s what it was), the fae, a dark void and a voice? Sounds pretty unhinged to him. He doubts that too, though. From what he knows of himself, he’s not too prone to insanity. 

“Zitao,” the voice says, shaking him out of it. “I like that.” 

“Do I not get yours? Your name, I mean. I can’t keep calling you the voice forever.” 

There’s a shuffling Zitao can barely make out. 

“What does my voice sound like to you?” 

Zitao thinks about it. He hasn’t considered it before, but the voice is low. Mellow. Soft around the edges. Pretty. Golden. 

“Have you ever heard an angel talk?” 

“Can’t say I have, no.” 

“I have,” Zitao says, and he says it with so much certainty that it must be true. “Your voice sounds like that.” 

“Alright,” says the voice simply. “You can call me that.” 

“What?” 

“Angel.” 

Zitao thinks for a second, considers it. 

“Angel. Yeah, that sounds good.” 

\---

Zitao doesn’t know how long it takes until they touch each other for the first time. All he knows is that when it does happen, it’s not an accident. 

“Angel,” he says on the day they touch, lying down, face up, towards the endless void. “The more I talk to you, the more I start to remember things.” 

This revelation comes from the previous day (or maybe the previous week, he can’t be sure), where the angel had asked him what his favorite color was, and Zitao had instantly replied with blue, even though for a second, he wasn’t quite sure what blue looked like. But then he remembers, the sea and the sky and the bright, bright edges of energy, just before they reach that blinding white, the gentle blue they flicker in. 

“Why?”, and there he is with his questions again, in his lovely angelic voice. “Have you forgotten yourself?” 

Zitao considers it, tilts his head to the side, staring into the darkness. 

“No,” he decides. “No, I’ve not really forgotten anything. It’s just that everything is blurry.” 

“That’s good. Means you aren’t insane. You were worried about that, weren’t you?” 

“How so?”, Zitao asks, and for the first time he considers if the voice, the angel might be poking around his own mind. He decides against it. The angel can see his face, Zitao realises. At this point, he might know Zitao more than Zitao knows himself. 

There’s a quiet movement across the void. Zitao can hear it, can even feel it. It takes getting used to, but he enjoys it. It means he’s truly not alone. 

He’s suddenly aware of a presence in front of him. 

“Angel?”, he whispers out, and he’s not quite sure what’s happening. 

And then there it is, a gentle hand clasping his own, and his fingers feel like they’ve lit up all over again, after centuries and centuries, he has stardust right at his fingertips. He must gasp, or hyperventilate, or something, because he’s supposed to feel utterly breathless, but he’s breathing just fine. 

“Adonis,” says the angel, cradling Zitao’s hand. “Insanity is clarity. The blurrier it seems, the more real it is.” 

Zitao doesn’t need any reassurance. He is sure that this is all real.

For he has an angel’s hand in his own.

\---

“What do I look like, angel?”, because out of everything Zitao remembers, his face is oddly missing. 

The angel hums from where he’s sitting on Zitao’s lap, facing him. At some point, their physical boundaries ceased to exist. Now, they’re touching almost all the time, an arm here, a leg there. 

The angel reaches out and thumbs across Zitao’s face, and Zitao tries not to shudder under his touch. His eyebrows are being traced, and when the angel whispers, he’s listening. 

“You have nice eyebrows,” he whispers. “They’re black, like your hair. Well defined. I like them a lot.” 

The angel’s fingers reach his eyes, and Zitao’s eyelids flutter shut. Thumbs are dragged across closed eyelids, as if to gently pat them down. There’s a slight laugh that Zitao can hear, and he savors it. When angels laugh, you listen. 

“Your eyes are very… normal. You have under eye issues though. Eyebags. Do you not sleep?” 

“I think,” Zitao says, strangely hushed. “I think that they were always like that.” 

The angel laughs again. 

“They’re that really pretty shade of brown that most people have. It’s wonderfully human of you. Though I’m not sure if you’re fully human, but I guess we’ll see.” 

Zitao thinks about his eyes, what he can remember of them. He sees the stars. 

“They used to be gold,” he whispers, and the angel’s hands are now on his cheekbones. “My eyes, they used to be bright gold.” 

“What happened to them?” 

Zitao thinks. He’s not sure.

“It’s foggy.” 

“That’s okay,” the angel whispers back. “I like them better this way.” 

Zitao suddenly feels the urge to make sure his eyes stay this particular shade forever, even though he’s doubtful they’re going to change soon, and even if they were, there isn’t much he could do about it. 

“Your nose,” the angel continues, soft fingertips lightly tracing its slope. “Is far more attractive than any other nose I’ve ever seen. That’s saying something, you know? It looks good, but I don’t think it would look this good on anyone else.” 

Zitao doesn’t say anything, just letting himself enjoy it.

And then, the angel moves to his lips. 

The skin on his lips is sensitive, so he feels every light trace of fingers, every movement. The angel traces his lips once, twice, always pausing at the dip, taking his time.

“The lips,” he whispers, and Zitao can feel it against his skin. “Your lips are perfect.” 

Maybe Zitao is expecting to hear more, but from the way the angel seems to fixate on his lips, he concludes that this breathtaking silence is likely. 

And then, he is kissed. 

It shouldn’t surprise him, how well his and the angel’s lips fit together. Everything else has been perfect, why won’t this? But he is already reeling in the shock of being kissed the way he’s being kissed, gently, quietly. Desperation, he learns, isn’t what the angel offers. No, what the angel offers is a single, adoring, soft kiss, the kind meant for mapping out Zitao’s mouth, and then he pulls away, and offers something else. Something precious. 

“Sehun,” he whispers, forehead pressed against Zitao’s. 

Zitao is pretty sure his eyes are glossed over, because his heart is pounding and he’s slightly shaking. He must look confused, because the angel repeats himself.

“My name,” and Zitao feels completely reverent in this moment, freshly kissed by an angel, who still has his face in his hands. “Sehun.” 

This time, Zitao kisses Sehun.

\---

Zitao still can’t see, but perhaps that’s okay. 

Angels are best revered in the dark.

\---

“Sehun,” Zitao whispers one night, his fingers in Sehun’s hair, stroking through them gently. “Did I ever tell you about the stars?” 

“You told me you dreamt about them,” Sehun whispers back, head tucked into Zitao’s neck. “When you first showed up here.” 

That was months, years ago. Who knows? Not them, not Zitao. 

“I  _ made _ them,” Zitao says, hushed, as if he can’t believe it himself. “I made all of them.” 

“You  _ what? _ ”, and for once, Sehun is surprised. 

“I made them. The stars. They’re mine.”

When he is met with silence, he continues. 

“I was there. At the beginning, I mean. Others brought life, and power and hope and responsibility. I brought the stars.”

“So that  _ was _ you,” Sehun breathes out, but Zitao, for once, doesn’t hear him.

“That’s where the gold went. From my eyes, I mean. I gave it to the universe.” 

A beat of silence.

“How?”, Sehun starts to ask, but Zitao is already on his feet. 

“You know,” he says, standing shakily on the floor of the void. “Maybe if I tried…” 

He trails off, and takes a deep breath, and he knows what he’s going to do. 

His core tightens, and he’s shaking slightly, heart threatening to leave him there, but when he raises his hands, his eyes glow, and the void is no longer a void, because it is now filled with galaxies and nebulae and the most beautiful of the stars, and there are new constellations, most of which look suspiciously like angels. 

When he puts his hands down, he’s exhausted, but the void now has light, and he can  _ see. _ They are still in a dark expanse, but Zitao has created light, pulled it out of nowhere, and now he can see the constellations, see his own fingers, see the soles of his shoes, see-

_ Oh. _

He can see Sehun. 

He turns around, and it’s slow at first, until he actually catches sight of the angel bathed in starlight, and he gasps, because  _ oh. _

“You’re beautiful,” he struggles to choke out, and he may be crying.

Sehun looks away from all the stars, and his eyes find Zitao’s. He smiles.

Zitao has never seen a brighter star.

\---

Zitao sits, holding Sehun’s hand, staring at the stars. He shows Sehun, every day, where he traced out Sehun’s name, again and again and again. 

His fingers trace up, to Sehun’s wrist, and settle there. It’s familiar. By now, they’ve explored each other enough. His fingernails dig slightly into the skin, and he realises what’s missing. 

“Sehun?”

Sehun lifts his head off Zitao’s shoulder, and looks curiously at him. 

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have a pulse.” 

Sehun shrugs, as if it’s nothing of concern. 

“I know. Neither do you.” 

“I haven’t had one since the beginning, angel. It doesn’t make sense for you not to have one, unless-” 

And it strikes Zitao, right there, tells him why Sehun could see through the void the whole time while he couldn’t. 

“You’re a creator,” he breathes out. Sehun looks at him, and then looks away, smile playing at his lips. 

It suddenly seems that the stars are shining brighter, but Zitao isn’t doing anything so it can’t be that. He looks closer, and- 

_ Oh. Oh, oh, oh, he’s so stupid. _

The void has grown darker. 

“You create the stars,” Sehun says, but gently, gently. “I give them a place to shine.” 

_ Of course. _

\---

“Don’t you wonder why we’re here, angel?”, asks Zitao as they dance under the stars. “You’re so curious, all the time, but you never ask about this. Do you not wonder why we’re here in the void?” 

Sehun smiles at him. 

“I would,” he says, letting Zitao lead them, watching as he lights more stars in their path. “I would wonder, but then I see who I’m here with, and I know.” 

When their lips meet, the stars flicker and somewhere, somehow, a new constellation is formed. Adonis, is what they discover later, much, much later. Adonis, with an angel at his side.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> again, i don't know what this is, but i hope you enjoyed it!  
You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hztwsx) and also on [Tumblr](https://hztwsx.tumblr.com/).


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